


The Wandering King Under the Mountain

by noalinnea



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 04:40:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/630537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noalinnea/pseuds/noalinnea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a request for the LJ community <a href="http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/">hobbit_kink</a>: Fili survives the Battle of the Five Armies and struggles to cope with the loss of his brother and uncle. Especially because he feels responsible for not taking care of Kili and keeping him safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wandering King Under the Mountain

With their lifeless forms at his feet it is as if his whole existence has come to a halt, too. He cannot see, cannot feel, cannot breathe, cannot rest, cannot sleep. Nothing feels the same anymore, nothing but his legs that are forever moving while theirs' have stopped. He wanders through the halls, these deep golden halls, wanders and wanders, his light casting shadows on the walls, shadows as restless as his thoughts and his feet. He wanders through the halls, these deep golden halls that a whim of fate suddenly has made his.

They never should have been his, none of this should have been his, he does not want any of this, he has never wanted any of it but back then, back then, before his life crumbled in front of his eyes, the possibility had always seemed so far away, decades and decades in the future. Thorin had always been there, would always be there. As would be his brother, his beloved brother. Or so he had thought. They had always been there for as long as he could remember, where would either of them go?

A mirthless chuckle echoes from the golden walls surrounding him while his feet march on. What a pathetic sheltered life he had lived, despite being raised as the heir to the throne, the throne under the mountain, despite his uncles' demands and stern looks and his hard hand. He had not been prepared for this, for any of it, and first afterwards, when the desperation seemed to choke him he had finally understood this vacated look in Thorin's eyes, he had finally understood what loss meant, and with realization dawning upon him the knowledge had settled into his bones that this would last forever, that there would be no way out of this, no way to heal and forget. He would have to live with this emptiness in his chest forever. Or else-

He stares at the little golden dagger in his hand, like he has done so many nights before during the past weeks, or had it been months already? The shiny golden dagger, it too, an heirloom after Thorin, an heirloom he had never wanted to inherit, like the whole rest of it. All of this was Thorin's, all of this was Thorin's dream, not his own.

Maybe it was a blessing that Thorin was no more, he thought, bitter. How would he ever have been able to face him again? He should have protected his brother, it had been his duty to protect his brother, whose but not his. And to protect his king.

And he had failed them both. Had failed to protect their lives. How did he deserve to be king when he could not protect those dearest to him?

Why him? Kili could have lived in his stead, as could have Thorin, he would gladly have given his life to save either of them. Or wouldn't he?

Over and over, he had revisited those moments in his mind while his feet carried him through the mountain. Those horrible moments, the clatter of weapons, the cries of the battlefield, and then Thorin's groan of pain when he staggered and fell to his knees.  And Kili. Kili falling and then going limp in his arms, suddenly not responding anymore and his face white, so very white underneath his bloodied hands.

Had he really put all his force into protecting them? Had he not tried to shield himself from the blows that came faster and faster as well as he had tried to protect them? Had he not feared for his life, too, as well as for theirs? And hadn't this fear clouded his mind and made him lose his focus? Had not his fear caused him to fail them and protect his miserable existence where he should have protected theirs and nothing but theirs?

And why? Why him? Hadn't his wounds been ugly, too, and festering, why had he made it? Why hadn't Kili? Why not Thorin? Thorin, the stoic, Thorin, the fierce, Thorin, the center of everything he had ever known? And Kili, whom he had never been without for a single day since he could think and remember, Kili who had always been just a breath away. And now…

Now there was only this one pair of feet causing the sound of footsteps under the mountain in the night where there should have been three. Or four really, when his mother would have arrived, finally arrived and they would have been together again.

He had been dreading her return above anything during those first, dark solitary weeks, had been dreading that look of disappointment in her eyes, had been dreading to be confronted with her pain when he could barely bear his own. He had let her down. He should have protected them, should have made sure she could wrap both of them into her arms when she finally came back, after all these years, all these hard years. How would she ever be able to forgive him, forgive him for losing both her son and brother?

His steps pause in front of her door and he rests his head against its frame for a moment.

She had been standing there, suddenly, in the Great Hall, very upright, her expression grave until her eyes fell on him and she had forgotten every rule of conduct and all but launched herself at him and hugged him fiercely, so fiercely, her hands digging into his arms and her tears wetting his hair while she had kissed him over and over, murmuring "My son, my dear son, my flesh and blood, to see you alive and sane."

Sane. Yes. As sane as his uncle when his thoughts were fogged by the riches of the mountain.

Home, he had promised them.

_Home._

He laughed, toneless.

Home.

But wasn't a home supposed to be a peaceful place?

Wasn't home where the heart was?

How could this ever be home to him when his heart was right there, in the ground, with the bloody, lifeless remains of his brother?

How could this ever be home to them when the threshold was painted with the blood of their hearts?

He had not been fighting for this, for empty halls filled with gold. What was all the gold under the mountain compared to his loss? The pain had lost nothing of its intensity, it still felt as if part of him had been cut off, it still felt as if he was bleeding. The exhaustion was still there, the overwhelming pain, the dizziness.  Getting up to a new day without them had become a challenge, as had eating.

Quietly he opens the door to her quarters and looks at her sleeping form in the flickering light of the torch.

He was humbled by her strength.

How did she do it?, he wondered night after night after night.  

How did she not want to wail out her pain with every breath she took, every new breath that reminded her that she was alive and they weren't?

ike he did, on the scorched remains of the battlefield at night.

How did she do it? Where did she derive her strength from?

Maybe it was because she had not been there, because she had not seen Kili's face so pale beneath the ugly gash that almost split his forehead in two, because she had not felt his skin grow cold in tact with Thorin's breath growing shallow. Maybe it was because she had not seen her son's empty eyes and the searing pain in her brother's.

Fili clenches his fist around the dagger in his hand and it cuts through his skin and leaves a small drop of red on the floor.

Red.

As red as his hands clutching frantically at his uncle's side, trying to stem the flood springing from his flank.

As red as the pool that formed underneath his brother's limp body, growing and growing and growing.

She would make a splendid queen. At his official coronation when she had knelt down before him, proud, so very proud, he had felt so clearly that she should be the one, that his place was her rightful place. She had kept them together throughout the decades of exile, had calmed and comforted Thorin and raised him and Kili with so much wisdom and tenderness. She had always been there, strong and composed, he had never seen her falter or doubt, she had always known which path to follow. Proud and beautiful and sane. Saner than all the males in the Durin family together, her blood unaffected by the mad and weak streak that seemed to whisper darkly in their blood line.

It should be her place. But what good did his thoughts do? He could not step down, it would never be accepted that he vacated the throne, not after these battles. Erebor did not have room for a king with a death wish. His people finally were where they belonged and he was not, by the rest of life still in him, going to let their new beginning be overcast by yet another death in the house of Durin.

Even if this beginning was a beginning that he no longer cared for.

He casts a final glance onto his mother before he quietly closes the door again and sets of to wander the golden halls, to wander and wander until time grants him peace. Him, Fili, the Wandering King Under the Mountain.


End file.
